


the common tongue of you loving me

by allofthepixels



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Tickle Fights, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 08:09:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18494890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofthepixels/pseuds/allofthepixels
Summary: Part of Eliot feels like he maybe, probably could’ve lived forever in this mind Palace Happy Place. Just him, his very handsy and attentive kept-boy memory of Quentin (and whatever other echoes he felt like conjuring up for company) partying away a few centuries. But then again, self-aware and happy don’t always mix.





	the common tongue of you loving me

**Author's Note:**

> Watching Margo’s musical spirit journey with her friends playing/representing different parts of her psyche gave me a lil idea. This takes place after “Escape from the Happy Place.”

Part of Eliot feels like he maybe, probably could’ve lived forever in this mind Palace Happy Place. Just him, his very handsy and attentive kept-boy memory of Quentin (and whatever other echoes he felt like conjuring up for company) partying away a few centuries. But then again,  _self-aware and happy don’t always mix_. 

Then again, now that he’s found that door once — and now that he’s gotten to pilot his meat suit (tacky T-shirt and all) within arm’s reach of the real Quentin—the echo-y memory existence just isn’t going to cut it. Not to mention the thought of the bloodshed and carnage the monster may be inflicting on innocent people while wearing his body was definitely harshing his mind-mellow.

He and Dream Q were taking a short break from their strategizing, leaving their vigil around the white board where they’d been drafting up a few different solutions, to take a breather. It wasn’t lost on Eliot that he’d left one in-depth, problem-solving conversation with himself for another significantly more masturbatory one, but he’s given up feeling weird about it all. He was allowed his fantasies as much (if not more, in some cases) than anyone else. 

And his fantasy, after some efficient, athletic and leg liquifying sex with his favorite person (mined from the recesses of his Mosaic memories and that particularly scalding—if slightly regrettable timing-wise— pre-Fillory threesome), was laying his head on Q’s warm chest and letting him play with his hair while he examined his hands, fingers intertwined so perfectly it made his heart ache. 

If he closes his eyes, breathes deep for just a beat or two, it feels  _intoxicatingly real_ and familiar. 

“For a memory, you’re real fuckin’ cute,” he sighed, running a finger over Q’s wisdom line and life line, wondering if he’d already committed them to memory or if this brain copy was just a rough approximation of wishful thinking and guesswork. 

“I hate when you say that,” Q’s brows furrowed, pulling his hand away with a small pout. 

“But I  _need to_ remind myself that you’re just a memory, though, Q. Can’t let myself imagine...” 

“Instead of thinking of me as a memory, El, maybe you need to start thinking of me as a piece of you,” he rolled over on top of Eliot, resting his chin on his belly, briefly dropping a kiss, before straddling him. 

“I love it when you get all metaphysical with me —” Eliot rolled his eyes, watching Q’s hands as they slid up his arms, intertwining their fingers again. “And, of course, when you get physical too.”

Q’s grip got a bit tighter, pushing his hands down to pin them on either side of his head and Eliot humored him with a bit of play wrestling. But memory Q apparently had some muscle that Eliot (or the version of him in his brain — he hadn’t gamed that out just yet) )maybe didn’t have, manhandling his wrists into one hand without a whole lot of difficulty. 

“You’ve gotta have some of me in you to play Top, I suppose,” Eliot smiled to himself, flexing his wrists once to test at this sudden super grip. 

“Deflection doesn’t work on me, El,” Q’s hand wandered down his chest, making Eliot shiver. “Besides, there’s plenty of things I know that outside me hasn’t gotten to try out just yet.” His fingers curled at his upper rib and Eliot squirmed to the side, biting his lip and forcing a gaspy chuckle back down his throat. 

He supposed a downside to still getting to have orgasms in this brain prison was that he still had some of his other sensitivity. (But also  _fuck that_.)

“I mean, your Quentin knows a couple things, don’t get me wrong, but he’s never been strong enough to do this—” 

He made a quick motion with his hands (spellwork that Eliot vaguely recognized from a romp or two with a couple kinky seniors in his first year) and Eliot could feel the invisible force holding his arms down, an equally strong pressure on his legs. 

“Well, this is surprisingly arousing,” Eliot quipped as he squirmed, the vulnerability getting to be a bit much to handle without a nice protective layer of irony, “if a bit forward, for you, Q.”

Quentin gave him a soft look, raising an eyebrow. His fingers crept up slowly until both hands — which had always been one of Eliot’s favorite parts of Quentin — hung lethally over his ribcage. 

“Q wait, we gottahaha-” Eliot’s nose scrunched up and his head flew backwards as hands wandered from his ribs up under his arms and back down again, drawing out small frantic bursts of laughter as they went.

 He can’t remember the last time he’d actually been tickled, let alone having no way to defend himself. He tried not to give in immediately or to break down into helpless giggles but there was something about the sensation, the way not-quite-a-memory Q looked at him too, that short-circuited his brain so wholly (but not entirely in an unpleasant way — file  _that_ away for once he’s out of brain jail) that all Eliot could do was react. 

“That feel real enough?” He teased (composed in a way that real Quentin never could’ve delivered). “Besides, if I was ‘just a memory,’ I’d only know about this spot —” Quentin wiggled his fingers decisively at his hip bones, going on just long enough to make Eliot try and kick him. “Oh, and these.” he returned to the rib and underarm combo and Eliot arched his back with a groan, as if he could will the fingers to get the fuck away from him. 

“But I wouldn’t necessarily know about this one,” he reached behind him and squeezed right above his knees (a secret, if disgustingly sensitive target). 

“Ohohoho, fuhuhuhuck you Coldwater,” Eliot yelped as the hands made devastating trails up and down his thighs. “Whahahat the fuck is this supposed to dohohoho anywahahay?”

Quentin gave him another look, as though Eliot had missed something obvious. 

“Have you thought that maybe I’m the piece of you, no matter how small it may be, that actually loves yourself?” He leaned forward, letting Eliot catch his breath for a beat before pressing a long, purposeful kiss into his lips — letting him melt into it fully before releasing his limbs. 

“I’m the part of you that knows you  _do_ deserve to get out of here. That you deserve to be happy and to be loved. You got that, El?”

Eliot blinked back a couple tears — thankful that memories and manifestations of his tiny shred of self-esteem (even the stubborn, strong and surprisingly sadistic ones) didn’t count as witnesses. 

“Loud and clear, Q,” 


End file.
